


A Routine Investigation

by buttcat



Series: A Dangerous Affair [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Case Fic, M/M, Oral Sex, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:14:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttcat/pseuds/buttcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his kidnapping and subsequent torture, John is back home safe. But is the ordeal really over? And how will the pair cope with the experience?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John's hands were thick with bandages and they stung when he bumped them against anything. It would be a very long time before he could use them for anything, and as such, Sherlock was off with Lestrade and his team on his own while John rested at the flat. 

It was for the better, he figured. He was tired, and, frankly, a little frail. The kidnapping and subsequent torture had taken a lot out of him.

At the same time, though, he still craved adventure. It was silly, wasn't it? Even after all of this, even after he'd been hurt _directly_ because of Sherlock, he still wanted to chase after the man. After all, he'd been let out of hospital awfully quickly - less than a week after he'd been found - because, when all was said and done, his wounds were relatively minor. He'd just needed a little surgery, and now his hands were sure to heal in no time. There was no infection - the instruments his torturer had used were in immaculate condition, apparently - and, once the surgeons had removed the remnants of his shattered nails, and straightened out his one or two broken fingers, all there was to do was wait. 

The time after his rescue had shot by. He'd woken to Sherlock's face swimming over him in the back of an ambulance on its way to St. Bart's, half out of his mind with pain and fear. The whole time Sherlock had grasped his shoulder comfortingly, and John had watched his sharp, clever eyes, using them as an anchor to consciousness. "Stay with me, John," Sherlock had whispered, and he had. He'd stayed with him, awake and sore all over, until they'd wheeled him past the hospital's double doors and the consulting detective had passed out of sight. They'd hooked him up to an IV, some sort of anesthetic, and he was gone. Before he'd been dragged into a deep, warm pool of rest, he'd seen Sherlock's blurry visage rippling across the backs of his eyelids. 

He woke up to the same face, still a bit blurry about the edges as his mind tried to drag itself out of the chemical cocktail he'd been administered earlier. Before he'd opened his eyes, he could've _sworn_ someone had been stroking his hair gently as he rested. 

That was the last comfortable sleep he'd had. The nightmares had plagued him ever since, continuing staunchly through his return to the flat. Just the night before, he'd woken up in a cold sweat, teeth gritted together, hands waving madly and uselessly into space. He hadn't had bad dreams in a long time, and in the past they'd been of endless deserts and gunshot wounds, his friends dying in front of him again and again, bodies shredded by shrapnel. These dreams, though, were filled with constraints and sharp objects, scalpels applied to the bottoms of his feet, broken glass against his fingers. When he woke his hands were sore where they'd been worked upon, and his shoulder, the one with the old gunshot wound, pulsed sympathetically with pain. On those nights, he would lie on his back and watch the ceiling until the sun began to shine weakly though the window again. His days were just as long and boring - there were only so many Connie Prince and Top Gun reruns one could pretend to watch. And always there was Sherlock dashing in and out of the flat, always off solving something or chasing someone, always caught up in something undoubtedly fascinating and, above all, _distracting._ And he could have no part in it. As it was, there was nothing to keep his mind off his predicament. 

He wondered if this was the way Sherlock felt between cases. Did the man feel like this all the time? He could almost sympathize.

Almost.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock returned very late that evening, his hair a mess. He was terribly flustered and breathing so heavily John could hear him over the trashy news program he'd been watching at an extremely high volume. 

"Are you all right?" he asked, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"Obviously not," he said, and strode over to the sofa. He threw himself down petulantly.

"What happened?"

"I... hm. Well, actually. Never mind, John. Go back to watching -" he gestured dismissively at the program - "that. Pay no attention to me."

"Oh, please. If you think I'm more interested in the show than, than I am you, then you've got that very wrong," John said. To make his point, he turned the television off. "See? Go on, then."

Sherlock pressed his lips together. "John. I think you'd prefer not to know."

He snorted. "What, are you trying to spare my delicate feelings? That's a first. Go on, Sherlock. Try me."

"It's about the kidnapper."

John felt his stomach lurch. He tried to keep his expression neutral. "Even more reason to tell me. Do go on."

Sherlock massaged his temples. "It isn't... _good_ news, John. You have to understand."

Of all the times to try and spare his feelings. "Sherlock! I can handle it."

"Well," Sherlock sighed, tentative. "We've got the man who - who hurt you. It took a bit, but he'll be put away for a long time."

"But - that's fantastic! Sherlock - "

"No, John, it isn't." Sherlock scrubbed the palms of his hands against his eyes. "We had to fight to get him at all. I had to call _Mycroft,_ make him pull some strings. Don't you see? The man plead 'not guilty', for Chrissakes. He expected to get away. We had video evidence, physical evidence, several witnesses - and he almost walked."

"But he didn't."

"Yes, but his boss did. And _his_ boss did. And most of the others he worked with, they all got off free. Do you understand? Every last scrap of evidence we had suggested these arseholes were working together on a larger scale, and they _still are."_

He grunted in frustration and buried his face into his hands, his knees drawn up nearly to his chest. Without thinking, John draped his arm about Sherlock's shoulders comfortingly and shuffled close. 

"It's okay, all right? You did what you could." 

"It's not enough," Sherlock mumbled. He turned his head to the side, eyes locking on John's. His brows were furrowed. "I can't let them go on like this. Not after what they've done." 

Sherlock's breath tickled his warmly against his cheek as he spoke, and John realized how close they'd gotten with a start. He unhooked his arm clumsily, minding his bandaged hand, and stood. The space he'd created between them stood loudly, frigidly, an unspoken statement that said - what, exactly? 

"Shouldn't you be the one comforting me?" he asked jokingly, trying to break the tension. "You'll figure it out in the end, mate. You always do." 

He wondered if he should stay with Sherlock longer, but the room had grown awkward and cold, and so he wobbled over to the stairs and up into his room. As he closed the door behind him, he thought he heard Sherlock say to himself softly, "but what if I don't?"

But what _if_ he didn't? Did it matter, really? John wasn't certain if it did. The man who'd kidnapped him, who was in his mind the main perpetrator of it all, was behind bars, and that was the most important thing. Mostly, he was just sick of the whole affair. He just wanted things to get back to normal. He wanted to go back to chasing criminals down back alleys, to watching his brilliant detective put together a picture with only a few scraps of evidence, to inspecting corpses in the morgue. He wanted his fingernails to grow back. And, most of all, he wanted this strange, uncomfortable fragility permeating the flat to shatter. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~ ~~

Two days later, the man was found dead in his cell.

John found himself trailing at Sherlock's heels as they proceeded through the prison. It was very noisy, the rough voices of its inmates echoing off the high ceilings and muddying the air. He'd practically begged to be brought along, and now part of him was wishing he'd stayed at home. It'd be horribly embarrassing to leave at this point, though, as he'd pulled out all the stops to persuade Sherlock to include him, and he didn't want his companion to think he was too weak to participate in the near future. 

There was no denying that he was awfully uncomfortable. His hands were healing nicely, but this meant they were itching constantly, and it was all he could do to leave them alone. On top of that it was hot and humid inside the badly-ventilated prison and he could feel sweat pooling underneath his bandages, wet and heavy and entirely unpleasant.

When they reached the cell, John recognized the man immediately, rigid in death though he was. His guts twisted and turned, his heart speeding up, and he took a few deep breaths behind Sherlock's back. He hoped no one had noticed.

Sherlock knelt down next to the man immediately, inspecting first his wrists, then the floor beneath him. He smelled the man's nails, and made a face. 

"John," he said, standing. "Do come here."

John knelt. The man's eyes were wide and glassy, and John felt a pang of anger. How dare he get off so easily? How dare he slip away like this, leaving behind the victims and their battered families? A snarl crept across his face.

"John?" said Sherlock softly. He placed a hand on the doctor's shoulder. 

John shook his head, bringing himself to the matter at hand. "Turn his face to me, would you?" he said. "He vomited, and more than once. Some of it got out - " and here he gestured to the puddle of sick that was drying a few feet from the man's head - "and some of it didn't. I'd say he asphyxiated - he's got a bit about his nose as well, if you look. It seems he thrashed about quite a bit before it happened, though - he's knocked over that bucket, for one thing, and his sheets, and he's clawed at the floor a bit. Could you hold up his hand? Thanks. See, his nails are all blunted. He was dragging them over the ground, it seems, and - what's this?" He peered in closer. "He's got something underneath his nails. Some shrubbery?"

" _Digitalis Lanata,_ " said Sherlock, and the reverent tone of his voice betrayed his fascination.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"Foxglove, John. Used widely as medication during the eighteenth century, mostly for ailments of the heart. In higher doses, however, the digitalin present in the plant can be extremely poisonous, leading to - "

"Seizures and nausea," John said.

"And, eventually, death," Sherlock finished. They looked at each other, grinning. 

The warden who'd accompanied them cleared his throat. "And what, exactly, does this mean?"

"It means," Sherlock said, springing to his feet, "we've got an assisted suicide on our hands. Do get me the record of everyone who's visited since he arrived, would you? Come, John. The game is afoot!"

John followed.


	2. Chapter 2

The investigation was not going well. 

They'd gotten their list, thirty people in total, all of them equally suspicious. None of them were remotely related to the man, his coworkers, or the company in general. Neither Sherlock nor John could pick out a relationship or motive of any sort. 

As Sherlock poured over profiles he'd collected from Mycroft, John wondered privately if this was a dead end. Sherlock thought there was more to this case than they'd gotten into, but really, how likely was that? In all probability, the man had somehow smuggled the poison in from the outside - or, someone had paid a random passerby, someone who was already going to visit their mum or little brother, slipped them the dried plant leaves, and pointed them in the direction of John's torturer. 

From across the table, Sherlock let out a strangled yell. "I'm going out," he muttered, and spun on his woolen coat. "I'll be back in a bit." He stalked out the door and down the stairs, his coat rippling dramatically behind him.

John continued to paw through the files, assessing the little portraits stapled to each for the millionth time. A frightened-looking teenage boy, an old lady with tight white curls. A twentysomething with dark braids down each of her shoulders and a peach cardigan. A man with a crew cut.

The pictures swam and danced across his vision, and he realized he was drifting off. He snapped upright and rolled his head around his shoulders, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He was awfully tired, and this was boring, and he wished Sherlock would move on to something else. Lestrade had called about a murder just yesterday, some stupid spat over a competing set of bakeries, but Sherlock had plowed right on through, refusing to waver his attention away from the prison poisoning. To his deep embarrassment he'd fallen asleep atop his flatmate the other night as they reviewed the same profiles he was picking through now, his exhausted mind succumbing to exhaustion, his heavy head drooping until it rested against Sherlock's upper arm.

He hadn't had the nightmares, though. There were no restraints, no instruments of torture, no cackling, hooded, shadowy men towering over him. There was just the warmth of Sherlock's bony arm against his forehead and the sweet, gentle waves of rest lapping against the shores of his mind, refreshing and revitalizing him. It was the first night free from nightmares since his release from the hospital. Part of him dreaded the next night, knowing there was no chance he'd get to sleep against Sherlock again. The thought made his heart ache, and he shook his head uncomfortably to rid himself of the sensation.

Across the room, a phone beeped. His head snapped up. It wasn't his phone, since his was - he checked quickly - in his back pocket. So, Sherlock's, then? That was odd, John thought, as he maneuvered his way across the room to check. Usually Sherlock took it with him wherever he went, but here it was, sitting on the sofa, the MESSAGE RECEIVED alert glowing on the screen.

It took a little work, but John managed to open it with the tips of his bandaged fingers. It was from Lestrade. 

He reread it once, twice, and then cursed Sherlock quietly. Of all the times for him to bugger off. The man had an impeccable sense of timing. 

It seemed things were just picking up again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

It was nearly half an hour later before Sherlock turned up again. He smelled like nicotine.

"What happened?" he asked as soon as he entered the flat. 

"How did you - never mind, actually. Here," said John, and tossed him his phone. "They've found a body."

"And?" asked Sherlock, his face impassive. 

"Just read the message, would you? I'll grab a taxi. Lestrade's been waiting."

Sherlock shoved the phone into his coat pocket and followed him out the door, his eyes flashing with life. "I'm guessing we reached the same conclusion?"

"I should think so. Even if it isn't related, it'll be an interesting distraction."

"Oh, it's related," Sherlock grinned, spinning to face him on the stairs. "That I'm certain of. Text Mycroft, would you? Tell him we won't be needing his services. He can come pick up those files himself, if he wants them back so badly."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ 

They met Lestrade outside, the construction site towering up behind him.

"It's a messy one," he said, Sherlock following him enthusiastically. 

"You'd like that, though, wouldn't you," Anderson called from the building's entrance. No-one paid him any mind. 

"We found the poor sod a couple hours ago," said Lestrade, starting his way up the stairs. "Everything's pretty fresh. It's at the third floor, John - you all right?"

John opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock jumped in before he could say anything. 

"He's more than capable, Detective. His legs are fully functional, thank you."

John rolled his eyes. 

"All right, just checking in." There was an awkward moment of silence, during which John kept his eyes affixed firmly upon the ground, until they hit the top of the stairs. "Here we are, boys - second door on the left. In we go - "

John felt a little wobbly. It was a big room, unfinished, a great deal like the one he'd been hurt in. There was a limp shape at the center, and, all around it, spattered on the walls and the floor and even the ceiling was a great deal of blood. 

"Jesus," he heard himself hiss. Sherlock strode forward, caring not for the state of his trouser cuffs. 

"Well, come on," he said impatiently, and John hurried forward, hiking up his trousers as he walked. He was glad he hadn't worn his nice shoes to this one. The blood was, as Lestrade had mentioned, very fresh - still wet, in fact, though going tacky. He'd have a hell of a time getting it out of his trainers.

He squatted next to Sherlock. "Male. Late thirties," he said, though he knew it was pointless. Sherlock had probably deduced the man's entire life history at this point. "Married - six years?"

Sherlock made a noise of approval. "Go on."

"Looks to be an office worker, I'd guess. Has he got a wallet on him?"

Sherlock rifled through the man's pockets. "Nope. Empty."

"Oookay. That's fine."

"What about his wounds, John? What do you see?"

"He's got circular puncture wounds to almost all his major arteries - four to the femoral, at least five to each radial, one to his external carotid. He must've bled out fairly quickly. However, his neck is untouched, which is odd - I'm guessing the murderer didn't want him to die _too_ fast, so he didn't mess with such a delicate area."

"Meaning...?"

"...Sorry? What?" John said. Sherlock looked a little disappointed. 

"Meaning our murderer was at least somewhat familiar with anatomy, but not so much that he was confident enough to injure the victim's neck."

"...Okay."

"He was probably afraid he'd go too deep, miss the vein, hit his throat instead. That's also why there aren't any wounds to the chest or cranium - he didn't want to hit the heart, lungs, or brain by mistake and let his victim die sooner than he'd planned."

"So he wanted to prolong his suffering," said John, shuddering a little. 

"Clearly. However - "

"However, it didn't go as planned, did it?"

"No," Sherlock muttered. "It didn't."

"He didn't realize he'd bleed out as fast as he did. We aren't dealing with a doctor here, then."

"No," said Sherlock contemplatively. "Just an amateur. A very... enthusiastic amateur." 

John felt a little nauseous. 

"The wounds, though," Sherlock said, lifting one of the man's arms, "are very interesting. See here, how the flesh is torn?"

"It's broken," said John, his stomach churning. "It was done with something relatively dull. The bones are probably crushed, aren't they?"

Sherlock nodded. "Pulverized. Whatever instrument the murderer used, it was applied over time, and with gradually increasing amounts of pressure." 

"All at once, though," John said. Sherlock looked surprised, and he smiled. "I think it was on a hinge, see? The wounds on the left side are way deeper than the ones on the right, which means - "

"Which means that the hinges were placed on the left side - and that's where the, the _spikes_ went in first, and as the hinge was closed, the ones on the right followed. I see," Sherlock said, leaning in close. Their knees were nearly touching. 

Lestrade cleared his throat. "If you two are through," he announced, shuffling over, "I'd like to get my team in here." 

"That was hardly a minute," Sherlock complained as they were ushered out.

"It was at least two. Did you find anything interesting? It seemed you two were quite... entranced."

"We didn't find a thing," Sherlock said snobbily, and swept down the stairs. "We didn't have enough time." 

"I'll text you in a bit," John called back with a helpless shrug, and followed in the wake of his impossible detective. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~ ~

When they got back to the flat, the sky had turned ashen. The sun was going down. Mrs. Hudson had her radio on, and they could hear her warbling along with it as they mounted the stairs.

"You think it's related?" John asked, as soon as they'd shut the door.

"Obviously," Sherlock said, flinging his coat to the ground. "They didn't even _try_ to keep it from us. Though they used a different method this time - that's certainly interesting. It looks like they've created a whole new device for this one - some kind of iron-maiden lookalike, but it's open at both ends. Did you see the blood spatter - ?" 

Sherlock darted forward as John listed to the side, grabbing his elbow and keeping him upright. He found his eyes were fluttering.

"Watch it," he said sternly, and steered him over to the sofa. "You should get some rest."

John sat heavily, his head listing back. Suddenly, though, he remembered the figures that prodded him through his sleep, and he pulled his eyes open with some effort.

"No," he said, his jaw set tight. "I'm not tired, Sherlock. We've work to do."

Sherlock looked at him curiously. "Is this about the nightmares?"

John sputtered. "I'm not having - "

"Oh, _please._ I can hear you thrashing about at nights, you know. It's obvious you're not sleeping well."

"And if I'm not?"

"John, you're only human. You've got to sleep sometime." Sherlock cleared his throat. "You know," he said awkwardly, "I don't mind if you - you know. Rest on me. If it keeps you from having nightmares." 

John's chest constricted. He could feel himself blushing. "Sherlock, you don't have to - "

"John, it's my pleasure. I insist." He leant back in the sofa, spreading his arms, as if to beckon John into his chest. 

John slid forward, positioning himself between the other man's knees. Tentatively he tilted his head back, and he felt Sherlock's chuckle reverberate through his entire body. 

"Get comfortable," Sherlock murmured into his ear, and John obliged. He slept peacefully that night, dreamlessly, his head against Sherlock's steadily beating heart.


	3. Chapter 3

John woke up feeling warm, comfortable, and very rested. He snuggled into Sherlock's chest unconsciously and spent a few dreamy minutes lying there with his eyes shut tight.

Eventually he opened them. He was more than a little disoriented.

Where was he? Was this the sofa? Was that - _was that Sherlock?_

It was. The taller man's chest rose and fell against his back slowly, steadily, indicating that he was still asleep. John didn't want to wake him, but he wiggled around as gently as he could to catch a glimpse of his face. He looked very peaceful, very pale, one hand splayed out like a pale spider against the back of the sofa, the other draped over the side. He had been looking at his phone before he'd fallen asleep, and it'd fallen from his hand onto the carpet below. No one had texted him since last night. 

His mouth was relaxed into a small smile, and John found he was smiling back a bit. He had very nice lips, Sherlock did. Rosy and pale, and well-defined. His eyelashes fluttered.

"Hello, John," Sherlock rumbled. John jumped a little.

"Ah! Erm, hello. Good morning, that is." Blood rushed to his cheeks. 

Sherlock hummed happily, his eyes still closed. He stretched his arms out to the side, and then brought them to rest across John's chest. 

John coughed in surprise. His trousers felt a bit tight. 

Bloody hell.

He squirmed away. "I'll just go shower then, if you don't mind," he managed. Sherlock frowned at his retreating back. 

"John," he said softly, and his flatmate turned, his cheeks bright red. "Do get me some tea, would you?"

John grunted in the affirmative and hurried away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~

They reviewed the facts over breakfast, Sherlock sipping his tea sourly and John munching through a batch of eggy toast. 

"Our medieval killer is back," John said around his toast. 

"That much is clear. This time, I should think, he's angry his torturer was captured. I'll bet you, though, the next time it happens, the method will be different," Sherlock mused. "This one didn't go as planned, and our mastermind won't like that. Not that 'mastermind', really, is a fitting word, in this case." 

"You there'll be another one?"

"Without a doubt." Without warning, he slammed a hand on the table. "This is so _frustrating,_ John." 

"Pardon?"

"I _know_ who the killer is. It's obvious to anyone with half a brain. I don't need to see any more evidence, I don't need to see any more victims - I know who it is, and yet, he's untouchable."

John hummed in sympathy. 

"Maybe there's something at the scene. A mistake, something he's left behind. I'll have to get the pictures from the department, but I think - " Sherlock's phone bleeped at him mid-sentence, and he peered at it, frowning. "Lestrade's found another one," he said.

"What?" John exclaimed. "Again?"

Sherlock nodded. "This one's different."

John laughed. "Like you said."

"Just like I said. Shall we get going?" Sherlock stood, but before he swept away, he looked down at the table and frowned. "That's odd," he murmured. 

"Hm?"

"Wasn't Mycroft supposed to retrieve these files? You did text him, didn't you?"

"Mmhm. He didn't respond, though." 

"Interesting," Sherlock said. He shrugged. "Shall we, then?" He offered John his arm.

John hesitated for a moment, and then, gladly, took it.

They strode down the stairs, side-by-side, and John was suddenly overwhelmingly happy. Everything was _right_ again. He was back on the trail with his detective, back darting from corpse to corpse on the streets of London. Sherlock worried over him in his own way, but he didn't let that worry override their casework, and for that he was grateful. Sherlock, he thought, realized how important these little mysteries were to him, how they kept him going day-to-day. He didn't know what he'd do without the brilliant, childish, wonderful man. 

When they reached the stoop, Sherlock came to a dead stop. John tripped over his feet. 

"Sherlock? What's the matter?" He followed his gaze down to the space in front of the door, and his heart dropped. He'd seen the envelope the record of his own torture had arrived in, and this one bore a startling resemblance to that one, down to the inky SHERLOCK scrawled across the front. 

John bent down and took it in his hand. Sherlock's face was a mask as he looked the doctor up and down. 

"Shall we go in, then?" John asked carefully. "We ought to see what this is."

"John," said Sherlock, his voice cracking a little. "Is this - ? Is it... you?" 

John stood. "I don't know. I don't think so. I think - " and now it was his voice that crumbled - "I think you've seen everything."

They waited on the porch a little longer, watching the street bustle with activity. It was John who moved first. 

"How about this," he said, waving the envelope. "I'll watch it first, okay? I'll see... I'll see who's on there. All right? And if - if it's me - "

Sherlock started to laugh, hysteria obvious in his hiccuping giggles. "No! No. John, this is ridiculous. You were right, you know, when you said - you said _I_ should be the one comforting _you,_ remember?"

John remembered.

"We'll watch it together, okay?" said Sherlock, and John nodded. He held open the door and they went back up into the flat, refusing to look each other in the eye. They sat on the sofa, the laptop between them. 

"Ready?" John asked, and Sherlock nodded. He popped in the disc. 

It was Mycroft.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft sat, tied to a chair, flanked by several tall men in suits. The scene was horrifyingly familiar to both John and Sherlock - Sherlock having seen a tape much like this one only days earlier, and John having been in Mycroft's position - but they both kept their eyes glued to the screen. It was a different locale, that much was certain; this time, the building they were in looked almost entirely finished, though uninhabited. A huge window, arched at the center and square at the sides, sat at the far wall, offering a picturesque glimpse of the sky. In the foreground, a fire burned. 

A woman was standing close to the frame, something silver clutched in her hand. She was very petite, dark-haired, and bore a striking resemblance to - 

"Sherlock, you don't think that's... the man who kidnapped me, you don't think they might be _related?"_

"Hm," said Sherlock. 

The woman began to speak.

"It really is a terrible shame," she said, "that we're in this position once again. Don't you think, Mister Holmes?" 

She'd directed this question behind her, towards Mycroft, who did not respond. He was gagged, John realized. Strange.

"Such a shame," she repeated, hitting the silver object against her hand. Sherlock had leant in close to the screen, squinting, trying to see what it was. "See, we were willing to back off. But then - ah, dear. You've started hunting us again. You put my associate in jail, and we've had to cut ties with him because of it! And I don't like that very much, you see. Not at all."

"Associate," Sherlock mouthed. His brow was furrowed. 

"You knew what would happen, Detective Holmes," she admonished. "This is all your fault. You could've stepped away, gotten your pithy revenge, but _no._ You kept going." She stepped in closer to the lens. "I must say, Detective Holmes, that your drive is quite impressive. You've kept on us all this time, even when we'd sent you our little movie! But we can't keep on like this, you see. Really, I think the problem is that we hadn't given enough of a warning. So, Mister Holmes: we are going to kill your brother."

All the air rushed out of Sherlock's lungs. For a moment he sat frozen, his eyes wide, but he quickly recovered his composure and straightened out his expression into one of emotional lassitude. 

"We're going to make him suffer, Detective Holmes," she concluded. "We will _destroy him."_ She bounced the object in her hand once more, and then reached forward to show it to the screen - a brand. She was going to heat it in the fire, John realized. 

The video cut to black. John's heart pounded wildly. _Mycroft. Mycroft was in danger!_ He didn't particularly like the man, but he certainly didn't wish him dead. Was he gone already? They might be too late. They should go back to the beginning, maybe, rewatch it - there had to be something, a clue, a, a landmark 

Sherlock snorted. He pushed the laptop closed. "No torture this time, really?" he drawled. "Dull." 

John whipped his head around toward him. "Sherlock! That's - that's your brother! He could be _dead!_ " 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He's not _dead,_ I guarantee it," he said. "He's hardly been missing for twelve hours. You saw the lighting in that clip - it was taken an hour ago at the most. They'll want to prolong his death, I'm positive - " 

"Okay, then!" John said frantically. "Let's say he's okay. But - where is he, Sherlock? I couldn't see a lot, maybe if we - "

"I know where he is," Sherlock sighed. "It was obvious. If you look, you can see - "

"Okay. _Okay!_ That's great, Sherlock, really - tell me on the way over, will you?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the taxi Sherlock found he wasn't nearly as panicked as he'd been when he'd gone to save John. It wasn't that he didn't care for Mycroft - when all was said and done, they were brothers, for better or for worse - but it just didn't seem as urgent. Maybe it was the fact that he knew precisely where they were headed. Maybe it was the fact that he knew Mycroft still had a great deal of time before his demise. Maybe it was the fact that John was sitting here next to him, warm and solid, bandaged hands healing at his sides, his lips pursed. And that was all that mattered. John was safe, so the world was okay.

"They made quite a few mistakes this time," he was saying. "Lazy ones, really. The sister isn't as much an aficionado as her brother is."

"Sister?"

"She and the man who'd died in prison are siblings, John, do keep up. You said they were related earlier - do you even listen to the things you say? Anyway, she's younger, less experienced, less dedicated to the craft. Yes, John, the craft - don't look at me like that. Obviously she and the brother were working together - how else would she even know about your video - and she's taken over the intimidation portion of the business now that he's out of the picture. Too bad she isn't terribly intimidating," Sherlock added. 

John remembered Sherlock's expression when he'd first seen Mycroft on the tape, and he silently begged to differ. He let Sherlock continue, though, partially because he didn't want to argue but mostly because he was genuinely interested in the detective's conclusion.

"It's fair enough to infer," Sherlock continued, oblivious to John's thoughts, "that they were working for the same firm. I'm guessing the body that was found most recently was the aftermath of the latest disaster surrounding the man who kidnapped you. They must've paid someone to slip him the poison - that isn't important though, is it," he said, catching John's expression. 

"How'd you figure out the location," John prompted him, and his face brightened considerably. 

"First of all, there was the time-frame within which we got the tape. It had to be filmed somewhere close-by, since we got it so soon afterwards. The second largest clue was, of course, the architecture. You saw that window in the background, didn't you? It's a little odd, don't you think, for an office building to have an enormous palladian window? Very unique. I remembered it when I saw it the first time - a few months ago, I believe - and it seems it's shown up again."

Of course Sherlock would be an expert on _windows,_ John thought wryly. Why wouldn't he be? 

"That sort of construction isn't typical to the company that we've been following, and it's ludicrous to think that a second business has been involved. They're on property that isn't theirs, which is why Mycroft was gagged, I believe - though they could've just gotten sick of his charming personality. Realistically speaking, they didn't want anyone to hear him, because they were trespassing. But why didn't they use their own land? I've got two hypotheses, though perhaps both may apply," Sherlock mused. "First off, they wanted to throw us off the trail - make it more difficult for me to find them. But in doing that, they made it _more_ obvious. Sloppy. My second guess is that they weren't cleared to conduct this sort of... business at all. The higher-ups had forbidden them from acting - but our little sister here wanted revenge." Sherlock folded his hands in front of him. 

"Brilliant," said John brightly, grinning. Sherlock smiled back, and their eyes met. John felt a blush grow across his cheeks.

"We're here," the cabbie announced, to John's relief. Sherlock leapt out of the cab.

"Come on, then!" he cried. "There's no time to waste!" 

John followed bemusedly, hand on his gun. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~ ~~~~

The rescue was quick and successful. They disabled Mycroft's captors quickly and non-fatally, and Lestrade was right on their heels to cuff them and cart them off to prison where they'd await their trial. 

Mycroft was alive, if rather badly burned. He'd have to spend a week or so in hospital. He was carted off in an ambulance on his own soon enough, John and Sherlock opting to stay on-scene and speak to the officers. 

John thought of Mycroft waking up, alone in his hospital bed. He'd had Sherlock, he remembered, and the sight had been terribly comforting to him at the time. Mycroft, he knew, would be less enthused to see his younger brother towering over him, and perhaps even less so John. Who did Mycroft have? Andrea hardly seemed to care about anything, and Mycroft seemed to feel about the same for her. Mycroft didn't have anyone, he realized, and the thought made him a little sad. 

Lestrade wandered over to them in the parking lot. "I guess that's that, then," he said. 

"Possibly," Sherlock said. "But possibly not. We might be going down the same road as we did before. If last time was any indication, those closest to the crime will end up in jail, while the higher-ups go free."

Lestrade's mind was obviously on other matters. "Poor sod," he said, his voice quavering a little. "I hope he's all right."

"What? Who? Oh, Mycroft. I'm sure he's fine," Sherlock snorted dismissively. 

John rolled his eyes. "He'll be okay, Greg. Don't worry." 

He watched Lestrade look gloomily out towards the horizon, where Mycroft's ambulance had gone, and his heart jumped a little. What if - ? "Hey, Greg," he began cautiously. 

Lestrade turned to him. "Hm?"

"I'm sure Mycroft wouldn't mind a bit of company when he wakes up," John suggested, ignoring Sherlock's grimace. "Why don't you go see how he's doing? 

A rosy blush brightened Lestrade's cheeks. "Well, I suppose - if no one minds - " 

"We've got the scene tied down," John encouraged. "You go ahead."

Lestrade gave John a curt nod and a tiny smile, and dashed off. As soon as he was out of hearing distance, Sherlock turned.

"What was that about?" he asked John.

"Ah, well," John stuttered. "I was just thinking - remember how you were there, when I woke up? It was really very nice. So I just figured..." 

His voice trailed off. Sherlock was scrutinizing him silently, refusing to offer any response. 

"Shall we, er," John said, gesturing. Sherlock nodded. Their taxi was waiting.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter, hooray!!!! 
> 
>  
> 
> this is the porny one.

A week passed without incident. A few minor cases popped up here and there, but they weren't particularly captivating - a stolen set of bracelets, an accidental fratricide, various crimes of passion. Mycroft got out of hospital in less than three days, to the surprise of everyone; he was awfully resilient, it seemed.

And he had work to do. As soon as he was freed from the doctors and nurses, he set to work piecing together a case against the company who'd been implicit in his kidnapping. Sherlock had mentioned the mistakes they'd made earlier, when he was working through his deductions, but he failed to mention the largest mistake of all: they'd made an enemy of Mycroft Holmes, who was, for better or for worse, the British government. 

No stone remained underneath Mycroft's prying fingers, no door remained closed. He got access to building permits, to blueprints, to lists of employees. He got access to their criminal records (suspiciously clean) and family histories (suspiciously linked, especially in the upper management permissions).

It seemed the company had been bullying landowners out of their property for a long time now, according to various transcripts and recordings Mycroft was able to dig up. They'd threatened the original owners and then snapped up their valuable property at an incredibly reduced price, then built "luxury" offices and condos to rent on it. Individuals who declined to sell their property had a history of turning up dead. 

Until recently, though, it seems the murders had been kept out of the company. There'd been a shift in management. Things had changed - old rivalries had resurfaced. A man with a penchant for medieval torture devices (as well as his two siblings) had risen to the top. 

It was a juicy case, and had gotten quite a bit of attention from the public eye - after all, quite a few wealthy individuals had their heads on the line here. Which is why everyone was shocked when Sherlock refused to testify. He stayed home, gloomy, and when the guilty verdict came through he seemed not at all pleased. He sat limply on the sofa, his baleful eyes peering over the crest of a textbook on rodent physiology he was pretending to read. Lestrade rang his cell three separate times, but he refused to pick up or answer any text messages sent his way. 

John found his behavior rather curious. Shouldn't he be happy that the case had been resolved? He'd been chasing these murderers for quite some time, complaining the whole while that they were untouchable, and now that Mycroft had gotten the whole lot - 

\- Ah. Mycroft. Sherlock was jealous, then, wasn't he, John realized. It was that old sibling rivalry flaring up again. Sherlock was angry that his older brother had beaten him to the punch, and now he'd spend the next few days sulking over it. It was a little silly, though, wasn't it? After all, Mycroft had access to resources that they simply didn't. There were some problems genius couldn't solve, not that Sherlock'd ever admit it. 

They spent the morning like that. John watched crap telly and periodically picked at his bandages while Sherlock glared ineffectually at his textbook. John figured, for the time being, he'd leave him alone. There wasn't any shaking him when he got mopey like this, especially when it related to Mycroft. He'd let his friend ride it out, and with any luck, he'd come to his senses before the next case rolled around.

That's what they could use - a good case. Not like the ones they'd been getting recently, all these silly affairs. At the same time, nothing too brutal, John thought. He'd had enough of torture and kidnapping for a good while. 

At noon, there was a knock at the door that Sherlock hardly even blinked at. With a sigh, John got up to get it. 

"Oh, Mycroft," he said in surprise, opening the door onto the tall man. "Do come in. Would you like something to drink?"

"I'm afraid this will have to be a short visit," said Mycroft, his eyes glittering in the dark hall. "I just wanted to stop by - "

"To gloat?" Sherlock interrupted. Unnoticed by John he'd somehow snuck off the sofa and down the stairs in his pyjamas, and was now looming over him in the stairwell, his lips pulled into a snarl. 

"To provide some closure. Though, I suppose, a congratulations is in order," Mycroft suggested to his brother smugly, a content smirk wriggling across his plump, shiny face. 

Sherlock moved as if to strike his brother, and John wedged his body between them. "Sherlock!" he snapped. "Quit that! Mycroft's hurt!"

"Oh yes, how could I forget," Sherlock sneered, his cold eyes raking up and down Mycroft's body. "Poor, brave Mycroft, wounded and battered, but he's still got the heart to stand up to those mean kidnappers. The government's having conniptions trying to nurse you to health. You've got the world at your beck and call."

"Oh, Sherlock, really? Is that what this is about?"

"You think I wouldn't notice? That I wouldn't have a problem with it? You get hurt, and suddenly there're people _all_ over the case, all over the company - "

"What did you expect? I just let them go? They were a danger to the community." 

"Oh, please," Sherlock scoffed, throwing up his hands. "Don't pretend it was for some greater good. Don't pretend it wasn't for your own sake." He brought his hand down on John's upper arm, gripping it tightly. John flinched, but let him stay there. He was shaking with rage, the anger between the two brothers palpable. The air crackled with negative electricity.

From where they were pressed together, John could feel how incredibly tense Sherlock was at that moment. Every muscle in his lean body seemed poised, taught, ready to leap down the last few stairs at a moment's notice. Mycroft was far more stoic, his posture as impeccable as it ever was, though his tired, murky eyes betrayed how bothersome he found his brother's insinuations. 

John looked back and forth between them in confusion. "What on earth are you going on about?" he managed. 

Sherlock pulled him closer to his chest. "Don't you see, John? He only put in the effort to catch the murderers because they'd meddled in _his_ affairs. When they'd kidnapped you there wasn't any point to getting the murderers then, oh no, they're _important_ to the economy, all they've done is killed a couple blokes and _tortured_ my best friend - but then darling Mycroft gets hurt, and now we've _got_ to get our revenge, don't we? Send out the calvary - !"

He was breathing very heavily against John's back, his curly hair wild.

"So... what you're saying," John said slowly, "is you think Mycroft could have brought them down earlier?" 

"I know he could have! God knows there wasn't anything stopping him. But no, you had to wait until someone _important_ was hurt." 

"Sherlock. There's only so much I could have done."

"You could have done _everything!_ You could have stopped this! 

"Don't tell me you would have acted differently, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped. "Don't tell me you wouldn't have waited."

"No," Sherlock said slowly. "I wouldn'tve. I'd been chasing them - I'd have chased them to the end of the earth, if that's what it took to bring this to rest. Because John - _John matters to me."_

There was a ringing silence. John could feel Sherlock's defiant gaze arching over his head, pinning Mycroft down to the door, stripping through his defenses. The man made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

"I think I'll be going now," he said. "Lots of - lots of very important things to do. I ought to get a head start. We'll finish this later, hm?"

"Certainly," Sherlock rumbled. Mycroft's eyes were like dinner plates.

"Well then," he said, and abruptly wrenched open the door. He hiked up his umbrella and, coat fluttering behind him, door snapping shut at his heels, he briskly walked away. 

John realized his mouth was hanging open. He closed it with a snap. The heavy hand on his arm lifted, but they remained pressed close together in the hall, Sherlock's chest at the back of his head, his arm cradling his shoulders gently.

"Erm, Sherlock?" he muttered. 

"Hm?" Sherlock grumbled.

"Uh, thank you. I think. For... that."

"My pleasure."

"Did you really mean that bit?" he asked tentatively. "The bit about me... uh, mattering." 

Sherlock looked surprised. "Of course, John. I'd be lost without you. You're..." he spoke softly, tentatively, his head bowed down toward John's - "...you're very important."

John's breath caught. Sherlock was so very, very close, his nose brushing against the back of his head, his warm breath coming in puffs against his neck. 

It seemed only natural, then, to roll onto his tiptoes, tilt his head back, and bridge that minute distance to finally press their lips together. It was a very soft kiss, and when John pulled away, he could see Sherlock's eyes were wide with shock, his wide-blown pupils nearly swallowing the rim of his irises. 

"John," he whispered. 

Their lips met again, greedily this time, John sliding his tongue down the length of the detective's lower lip before shyly breaching his mouth. Sherlock let out a throaty moan, his arms slipping from John's shoulders down to his hips, fisting the sides of his jumper. Their tongues met and then twined, hot and wet and slick, their mouths pushing greedily together. Sherlock, John realized to his surprise, was not a bad kisser. Not bad at all. It was really quite nice. 

Of course, there was the added bonus of it being _Sherlock_ he was kissing, not just some random girl he'd picked up from the pub, some chance encounter over the holiday. It was Sherlock's clever tongue that was mapping his mouth, brushing up against his teeth, making him shiver and press, week-kneed, against the bannister.

He realized his neck was beginning to get a bit sore. Conceptually this backwards-kissing thing was quite nice, and really quite appealing in a risque sort of way, but it was hell on his joints and he knew he couldn't keep it up for long. He reluctantly broke the kiss, and was almost glad he had afterward, if only to hear that desperate whimper Sherlock had made when he'd relinquished contact. The detective's heavy-lidded eyes swiveled over his face, still deducing, still calculating, even in the heat of that kiss. John almost had to laugh. 

"C'mon, then," he said, "upstairs," and he hardly had to finish the sentence before the taller man had him by the wrist and began tugging him, hard, up the stairs. 

Something jostled about in his bandages, and he cried out. Sherlock stopped his ascent immediately, rushing to his side and gathering up his bandaged hands.

"What happened? Are you all right?" he asked, brows furrowed deeply. He looked very distressed. "Did I hurt you?" 

"I'm fine," said John wearily. "It's just - my nails, you know. They're still growing back. If you tug on the bandages like that..." 

"I - ah, John, I forgot," Sherlock said. "I was so - I'd been so caught up in everything, and I just - . Stupid. Stupid!"

He looked so disappointed in himself, his head tipped down to the ground, his free hand clenched in a fist, and John felt a pang of - something? - tear through his heart. Affection, perhaps? Whatever it was, it compelled him to surge forward and kiss Sherlock hard on the mouth.

"You dolt," he said, smiling hugely. "You don't have to worry so much about me, you know. Just be careful, okay?"

Behind his dark, curly hair, an odd spark came into Sherlock's eyes. He smiled. "All right, John. I'll be careful." 

With that, he bent, hooked one arm about John's knees and the other about his back, and lifted him as if he was about to carry him across the threshold. John yelped and squirmed a little, but it was obvious Sherlock wasn't going to put him down, and he resigned himself to the ride. Despite his threadbare frame, the detective seemed to be quite strong, and he had no trouble carrying him up into the flat and gently down onto the sofa. John sat upright with his back against the chair and Sherlock crouched at his knees like a demented puppy. 

"That wasn't quite what I meant," John huffed. 

Sherlock grinned wolfishly. "I owe you at least this, John Watson."

"You don't owe me - oh!" 

Sherlock had swooped down upon his mouth again. Their bodies were crushed together on the sofa, warm and sweet, John's injured hands carefully arranged to the side. Sherlock began to kiss his way down John's jaw.

"You can't do much of anything in this state," he said between kisses, "so I suppose I ought to take care of you." 

John couldn't do much in response but groan contentedly, his neck burning where Sherlock pressed his lips to it. A surprisingly soft, large hand crept up underneath his jumper and he jumped back at the unfamiliar sensation. Sherlock drew back quickly.

"Oh," he said. A blush spread over his cheeks, and he looked away from John bashfully. "Did I - John, do you... do you want this - ?" 

John took in the sharp line of his jaw, his swan-like neck, his broad shoulders, his lips pink and plump and wet from kissing him. He'd been with men before - desperate measures, thank you very much - and it'd been serviceable, and he'd been with women and it'd been equally... okay. But this - this was _Sherlock,_ his best friend and steadfast companion, the man who, he realized, he cared for more than anyone else in the world. The man he wanted more than anyone else in the world. 

"God, yes," John breathed. They lunged for each other.

It took some work but they got John's jumper off without inflicting too much pain, and Sherlock latched onto his chest like a lamprey, licking and suckling and kissing the exposed flesh as John squirmed below him. His chest was crossed with little white scars, old badly-healed wounds, and Sherlock ran his fingers across each of them gently, softly, careful not to hurt. He worked down to John's belly-button with his hands and lips, kneeling in between the doctor's thighs, his curly hair brushing against John's skin now and then. They were both panting heavily, a bright red flush heavy in their cheeks. John's trousers were tented up beneath Sherlock's chin and it took a great deal of strength to keep himself from jerking his hips upward forcefully to obtain some sort of pressure, contact, something, _anything._

Sherlock was unable to wait any longer and he unzipped John's trousers, pulling him out of his pants and into his palm. The tip was already glistening and dripping, his cock dying to be touched, and Sherlock oblidged; he ran his hand up and down its length slowly, getting a feel for its weight and texture. 

"Incredible," Sherlock muttered, and John gasped sharply at the feeling of warm breath on the underside of his cock. He'd been here, he'd done this before, but for some reason it all seemed so new and heady to him as Sherlock licked his way up his erection. He took the tip - and just the tip - into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue, flicking at his frenulum, and John cursed loudly. 

"Sherlock, please," he breathed, and in one smooth motion, Sherlock took him all into his mouth and began to suck. His tongue continued to lash up and down his length as he went, and John couldn't help but look down and watch the beautiful man bob up and down on his cock, his cheeks hollowed, his eyes closed in concentration. It felt marvelous. 

He wanted so badly to cradle Sherlock's head in his hand, to stroke those lovely curls, but he could not. His hands lay uselessly at his sides, palms to the ceiling, as Sherlock worked up and down in between his thighs. If only he could heal faster. At the thought of guiding that clever mouth against his cock, fucking it, his hips jerked up uncontrollably. Sherlock chuckled and the noise jittered through his body. He could feel his orgasm building in his gut as the detective moved faster, tongue snaking around him sinfully. 

"Sherlock," he said. "Sherlock, I'm going to - I'm coming, Sherlock - "

The world whited out for a moment. Sherlock kept his head doggedly upon his cock for the duration of it, gagging a bit in surprise when John spilled into his mouth but still managing to swallow, licking his lips quizzically afterward. John slumped back.

Sherlock stood from his spot between John's knees and slid in next to him, resting his arm across the back of the sofa. "Are you okay?" he asked, concern flashing in his eyes. 

"What? Yes, God," John gasped, leaning his head back on Sherlock's chest. "That was bloody brilliant, Jesus." 

Sherlock hummed in pleasure. "I'm glad you liked it."

John snaked his hand around to the front of Sherlock's trousers, but he was gently batted away. 

"Sherlock - "

"You're infirm, remember?"

"But you've got a..." John mumbled, gesturing at Sherlock's erection. 

"Later," he said firmly. "You're in no shape to do anything right now. Those bandages'd only get in the way."

John giggled. "Okay, okay." 

They sat together in silence for a while. 

"This is enough, you know," John said. "Just... just being here, with you. Even if we never do this again. As long as you're here, it's enough. If you don't want to, you know. Do anything again."

Sherlock sputtered. "Are you thick? Of course I want to - God, John, I haven't _ever_ wanted anyone as badly as I've wanted you. Unless you don't want to - "

"Jesus, no, I do. I really do."

"There you go, then."

John burrowed his head into Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut. "I just worry. You said you were married to your work, after all, that first time we met."

"Married to my - ? I'm surprised you remembered that, John," Sherlock said. "Up until now, you know, I was. Up until I met you, the work was everything. I think, though - I think I'd sacrifice it all, for you." 

John giggled. "Well, let's not test that theory," he said. 

"I agree," Sherlock said solemnly. 

They cuddled on the sofa until they both fell asleep.


End file.
